Calls Received
by esplanade
Summary: A post on Tumblr said: "You guys what if in S3 they show a flashback from after the fall when someone inevitably finds Sherlock's phone and it becomes a weird echo of Scandal so instead of Sherlock asking John for Irene's phone back it's John asking Lestrade for Sherlock's." This is the result.


"Please."

John stared at Sherlock's outstretched hand, and after a long silence, he reached into the bag and pulled out Irene's phone. He dropped it heavily onto Sherlock's palm.

"Thank you."

Sherlock didn't even look up from his microscope.

When John went to give the packet of evidence back to Mycroft, the man instantly said, "Something is missing, John."

"Yeah well, if you need it back so badly, you can take it up with your brother, because I'm certainly not going to help you retrieve Irene Adler's phone. Not after what he's been through because of her." Mycroft made a face, not pleased by the prospect of fighting through the issue with Sherlock.

"I suppose we must pick our battles."

* * *

John sat in the guest chair on the other side of Lestrade's desk. He was hollow, numb, but still had decided to come in and give his statement. It was probably for the best that he got it over with. Besides, he felt he owed it to Lestrade to tell him what had happened, since Lestrade would likely be suspended within the day.

The DI walked in and shut the door behind him, some evidence bags and binders balanced in his arms. He didn't bother with a greeting. Both men were past that now.

"We sent a team up to the roof," he said, dropping his things on the desk. "There was a body up there. Richard Brook, self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head."

"Moriarty."

"Not according to the records."

"After Irene Adler, we know how trustworthy records are."

Lestrade sighed as he sat down. "Look, John, all I'm telling you is what we know for sure based on the evidence we have. And the evidence says that the man we found on the roof of Bart's is an actor named Richard Brook, just like the papers are talking about."

John looked away, trying to beat down the anger. He knew it wasn't true. But there was no way to prove it now. The only man who could have proved it was gone.

Lestrade was quiet for a few minutes, before asking softly, "You were on the phone with him before he jumped, right?" John nodded. "What did he tell you?"

"He said that the call was his note." John could hear how shaky his voice was, but he didn't care. His therapist would almost certainly diagnose him with post traumatic stress this time, he thought.

"And?"

John hesitated. He didn't want to say what Sherlock had told him to. He knew it was all lies told in his friend's last moments alive, but it would sound bad in light of the Richard Brook stories in the papers. "He said to tell anyone who would listen that he was a fraud." John's voice was barely above a whisper. Lestrade failed to hide his shock. John stared hard at him. "It's not true!"

"John-"

"No, don't give me that, Greg! We both know it's not true! I don't know why he said it, but it's a lie!"

Lestrade's face flooded with pity. He couldn't make himself look John in the eyes, so he stared at his desktop, trying to think of what he could say that wouldn't make it worse.

"Listen, John, I know this has been a shock, but we can only base our case on what we know. Direct quotes, physical evidence, that's all we can go on. Even if we believe Sherlock wasn't a fraud, we can't run with it unless we have something to back it up with."

"Do you believe he was a fraud?"

Lestrade's silence said more than any words could have.

"You know, he helped you for years. He was the reason your cases got solved. How can you even entertain the idea that any of this rubbish in the press is true?"

"I didn't want it to turn out this way any more than you did, John! When I was dragged into my boss' office and told to go arrest Sherlock, do you think I enjoyed it?"

The two men stared each other down, fuming.

"I don't want to believe it's true, but right now, I don't know what else to believe. Don't tell me you didn't have a moment of doubt when he told you all that on the phone."

"No, Greg, I didn't. I've doubted everyone else during this, but I _never_ doubted him. Not once." John's anger had broken, and now he just sounded defeated. He didn't want to feel betrayed, but that was what it had come to. Betrayed by the Met, yes, but betrayed by Sherlock as well. "What exactly do you want from me? He called me, gave me a voice suicide note, and made me watch him kill himself. He had no pulse. I checked."

Lestrade finally saw how broken John looked. And as callous as he felt for thinking it, he was very glad he hadn't been outside Bart's to witness all that John had.

"Go home, John. You don't need to be here right now."

"I just don't know what you expect me to tell you. The Met has clearly already decided what position they plan on taking."

"This hasn't been easy on me either, John. They're going to suspend me. I'm just waiting for them to come in here and make it official. Frankly, I'm amazed they're even allowing me on the premises still. I'm going to lose my job over this."

"I lost my best friend," John snapped. He knew Lestrade was sad, having lost Sherlock and his job, but he couldn't make himself be sympathetic. John sighed and rubbed his eyes, taking a deep breath to calm himself. He looked back up at Lestrade, who was watching him intently, brow knit with concern.

"John, should I be worried about you? I don't want you doing something you'll regret."

John shook his head. He wouldn't be following in Sherlock's footsteps. If the war hadn't driven him to suicide, then neither would this. He refused to give Moriarty the satisfaction of having killed them both.

"Greg, look, do you mind if I leave? I'll come back, but I just don't know if can talk about this anymore right now."

"Sure, John. Go home, get some rest. We'll talk later. Or rather, you'll talk to whoever they fill my place with." John stood to leave, and as he did, he glanced over Lestrade's desk at the evidence bags.

He instantly recognized the phone, and when he laid eyes on it, it was as if the floor went out from under him. He put a hand on the edge of the desk to keep the room from spinning. When he looked up, Lestrade was staring at him, a terrified look on his face. He'd forgotten he'd had the phone, and he hadn't even considered the effect something like it would have on John.

John didn't ask for permission. He opened the bag and slid the phone out into his hand. Sherlock had never been without this stupid phone. John was amazed he hadn't placed it back in his coat pocket before jumping. The phone felt like it weighed a thousand pounds,, and he set it gently on the edge of Lestrade's desk for a moment, afraid his shaking hand would drop it. He couldn't live with himself if he broke the only piece of Sherlock he had left. He still held the evidence bag in his other hand. It had no markings on it, no case numbers.

"Has this been officially entered into evidence yet?"

Lestrade heard John's real question. "No, but John-" Lestrade stopped mid-sentence. The only way he could describe John's expression was pleading.

"Please." John didn't even try to conceal the break in his voice.

Lestrade looked at the phone. As far as the records were concerned, this phone didn't exist as evidence. And Lestrade decided he was already in trouble anyway. How much more damage to his career could he cause at this point? He picked up the phone, turning it over in his hands for a minute like it held the answer to why Sherlock had done it. But the screen stayed black and gave him no closure. He held it out to John, who took it and put it in the evidence bag, tucking it away inside his coat.

"Thank you." Lestrade nodded, but didn't look up from his desk. John thought he looked more miserable than he'd ever seen him. But they had both crossed their own lines in the last few days, and they now found it impossible to return to how they'd been around each other before. John paused for a moment, debating whether or not to say anything else, and finally decided there wasn't all that much to say.

* * *

John sat in his chair in Baker Street that night, the seat across from him noticeably empty. The flat was too quiet without Sherlock. Time passed more quickly in his absence. John would look at the clock and find an hour had passed when it seemed to only have been minutes. He had tried to read, to watch television, but nothing helped. He gave in to the crushing silence, and didn't come out of it until very late.

When he did, he made himself some tea, catching himself in time before he made a second cup, and sat down at the table in the living room, the phone in its plastic bag staring back at him. He leaned his arms on the tabletop and unwrapped the phone. It had scratches across the back from where Sherlock had dropped it onto the rooftop. If he'd been alive, he would have been furious at the scratches. He was much too meticulous to allow such imperfections on his mobile.

John turned it on, the screen illuminating his face. Everything was in perfect order, as always. He began looking through the different folders of the phone. There were still pictures from recent cases. There was still an alarmingly short list of contacts in his address book. John opened the sent text messages. Most of them had been deleted, cleaned out over time. But the ones that remained were all sent to John. He saw the familiar first texts from their first case.

_"Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH"_

_"If inconvenient, come anyway. SH"_

_"Could be dangerous. SH"_

That was painful to see, but it was nothing compared to the texts in Sherlock's inbox. He had saved one from Irene, the one that read, "Goodbye, Mr. Holmes," and every other one was from John. Their entire friendship, preserved in text messages. From A Study in Pink until the end. Every single text they'd ever sent each other, Sherlock had saved.

John let out one shuddering breath and went back to the main menu. He opened up the calls section and clicked on "calls received." There were some from Lestrade, some from Mycroft, but nearly every call Sherlock had ever had was from John. And under "calls dialed," there it was, the last call. It was just a few minutes on the time stamp, a few agonizingly long and horrifying minutes. In the last moments of his life, Sherlock had only spoken to him. There were no other dialed calls around that time. Just the one to John.

John set the phone down on the table for a minute, holding his head in his hands. He wasn't sure for a while that he could ever lay eyes on the phone again after seeing all that, but he eventually picked it up again and went through the calendar (blank, Sherlock never cared about keeping appointments, after all), and finally, the notes section. John hadn't really expected to find anything there. Sherlock was always the type of person to either remember on his own or scribble it in that little notebook he carried everywhere. But there was one note, which John opened. When he saw the line of text, he reread it at least ten times before he gave in to the tears that he'd been fighting all evening. He sat the phone down, stood, and turned his back. He couldn't look at it any more tonight.

Behind him the phone's light began to dim to save its battery. After a few seconds, the screen went completely black, but the message was still there, as it always would be.

_In case things go wrong: Thank you, John. For everything. SH_


End file.
